


"I need attachments."

by Mico_kun



Category: PLAYERUNKNOWN'S BATTLEGROUNDS (Video Game)
Genre: I Don't Even Know, I Tried, Other, Psychological Drama, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27628076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mico_kun/pseuds/Mico_kun
Summary: A short story about a self-aware PUBG character wondering what he truly wants in the bloodsoaked battlefield.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Kudos: 1





	"I need attachments."

I remember the good days. I remember the bad days too.

I remember the frosty blast when jumping down into that luscious scenery from the C130 plane. The chilled breeze that froze my senses, the rushing gush of air that ran through my body, that nauseating taste of adrenaline I always indulged that pumped through my veins as I closed in on the surface.

I remember my squad. There were four of us here. We had tons of fun back in the day. We burnt through the days in our bunk chatting how we would win that esteemed dinner, as we waited for our turn to jump off that plane and enter that glorious battlefield that beckoned us in. I can only stand here in this bloodsoaked forest and imagine their excitement, their dash of triumph. If only the days had been kinder on my memories, I would have remembered their faces.

It has been days since their time had come for them. They returned to that clear blue sky, while I toil down here, fighting for my life by myself.

It has been awhile since I have had anyone to talk to. It has been a long time since I have spoken to anyone. The last conversation I had was shared with my buddy who begged me to keep running before he bled out. He did not want his death to be in vain. 

If only there was another way. 

I remembered seeing other adversaries. Their beams of glee across their faces, their bonded sense of camaraderie, like how I shared with them. They were lucky to be slain by me. Lucky for them to shout commands together and die together. I remembered some of the bodies smiling as I looted their possessions. 

The only chattering nowadays I hear is from my rifle. 

My rifle. 

This damned M4. 

This rifle, both a blessing and a curse. It has seen as much blood spilled as I have. It has killed as many as I have. It feels nothing like I do. "Live by the sword, die by the sword", they say? I truly believe it. My time will come one day. 

None of that matters now. As if it mattered at all. 

As I stand before this woman, curling up on the floor and begging her life to end, with my barrel pointing towards her, I breathed and threw my glance to the sky. 

What else is there to say? I am stacked with my ammunition and strapped with grenades by the belt. Her ammunition dried up with her armour dented and broken. Nothing is left for her. The results of this match are clear.

I will win yet again.

At what cost?

I stared back down at her and readied my rifle.

I can sense the fear in her teary eyes. 

How many #1 spots have I taken? How many Chicken Dinners have I swiped from worthy opponents? How many more people do I need to kill before I get invited to another match altogether? How many guns had I held in my hands? 

All these guns, all these grenades, all these could go to hell for all I care.

If I could trade all my attachments on my rifle for my friends back, I will do it. 

As I eyed down through my scope, I stilled my breath. 

My rifle was strapped with attachments. Attachments I greedily stripped off from the corpses. Attachments that boosted me to hunt for even more victims. Attachments that whispered me to seek even more strength and power.

Was it worth it? 

To watch others suffer and die for those attachments? 

Were the attachments I truly needed not the ones strapped on my rifle? 

Were the attachments I truly needed my friends from a distant past? 

I needed attachments for my rifle, but no longer do I wish for it. My heart yearns for another form of attachment.

I need emotional attachment.

I need physical attachment. 

I need attachment.

It has been too long. 

When did I start this journey? 

This cycle will repeat itself over and over again. There is no end to it until I myself fall and lie down there to enjoy that clear blue sky one last time.

Will I be willing to accept death?

Will I be willing to accept defeat? 

I gritted my teeth and pulled the trigger. 


End file.
